


bend, but do not yield

by HexJellyfish



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: F/F, Imprisonment, Nostalgia, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, evelyn continues to be a huge gay, helen and evelyn reconnect after the events of Incredibles 2, moderate angst, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HexJellyfish/pseuds/HexJellyfish
Summary: alt title: even prison can't stop me from being a huge lesbianTo the surprise of the public, even the rich can be indicted for heinous acts: Evelyn Deavor gets not a slap on the hand but a long sentence in a high-security prison, where she cannot access any form of complex technology and so is limited in the harm she can do to the common man.Helen finds out that she's allowed visitors, and pulls some strings.





	1. classical conditioning

 Helen’s first mistake was visiting Evelyn.

There were no devices in Evelyn’s prison cell––nothing electronic, nothing sharp, and nothing more advanced than a metal toilet and a bedframe bolted to the ground. The irony of her cell had struck her on more than one occasion: the rich and elite paid millions for their designers to give them _open-concept,_ when they could have the emptiest room in the world for free. All it really cost was endangering the lives of an entire coastal city, a hundred of the world’s most prominent political ambassadors, and a hundred Supers, plus or minus a few children, babies, and owls.

As a result of her empty cell, Evelyn spent most of her time draped across her rock-hard mattress, trying to eavesdrop on the guard station down the hall––and she had no trouble at all hearing a familiar voice cut through the fuzz of the battery-powered radio play.

“I already have clearance from the head office to bring it in,” The voice insisted. “Besides, it’s not exactly a home computer.” Evelyn rolled onto her feet, dragging herself to the edge of her cell and sitting against the glass, legs crossed. Whatever her flexible friend was bringing, it had to be small enough to fit through the hand-sized hole in the foot-thick plexiglass wall––otherwise, the guard would have to open the cell door, and then Evelyn would pull out her hypno-beam and make them all dance like chickens.

The door on the far end of the hall opened, and her suspicions were confirmed: it was, in fact, Helen Parr. She strode down the steel walkway with a perfect evenness; Evelyn supposed this wasn’t her first time in a high-security prison. In her hand was a brown paper bag, pox-marked with grease stains.

Evelyn said nothing. She watched Helen approach, plant herself in front of the cell, and look her over. She wasn’t exactly in peak condition––prison did that to you, surprisingly.

“Hi,” Helen said. Her voice, still raspy and warm like Evelyn remembered, echoed off the industrial halls. Evelyn didn’t favour her with a response––just kept watching. “I heard from Winston that you were allowed visitors now, on an extremely restricted basis––but I figured I could work my way in without much trouble.”

Evelyn hummed in return. She was surprised by how the effort stalled in her throat; her voice protested after weeks of total silence.

Helen held up the paper bag. “I brought you some takeout. When we were staying in the motel downtown, we found all the best takeout places, and this was the best Chinese food by far. I’m afraid it’s a little cold, but it’s something.”

She stepped towards the glass and offered it through the circular hole; Evelyn considered grabbing her wrist, just to make a show of things––but in the end, she decided against it. She remembered an old adage of her mother’s, something about biting the hand that fed you; in this case, the hand was feeding her takeout, and she wasn’t complaining. She took the bag and started rooting through its contents.

Meanwhile, Helen sat across from her on the floor, mirroring her position on the other side of the plexiglass. She watched Evelyn tear apart the Styrofoam containers, ignore the prison-provided paper utensils, and dig in with her fingers, shovelling bunches of rice and vegetables into her mouth. There was something hard to identify in her expression––was that concern, or pity?

Evelyn finished her food in minutes, hardly savouring the flavour. Then she crumpled the containers and bag and pushed them back through the hand-hole in the glass, onto the hallway floor. She tried a perfunctory phrase. “Thanks.”

Helen smiled. “Of course. How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” Evelyn stifled a derisive laugh. “I’m in jail, Helen. How do you think I feel?”

“You feel… good, because the system has proven just and fair once again?” She tried.

“No, no––that’s the idealist. Give me the cynic again.”

“You feel bad, because you had so many evil plans you didn’t get to execute.”

Evelyn snorted. “Yeah, that’s better. I was going to rob a bank later this month, because I don’t have enough money already, and then I was going to build an evil lair in the tropics, because I don’t have enough tropical getaway spots already.”

“Rich and evil have so many things in common,” Helen said. “Isn’t that a thinker?”

“Yeah, well. Money is the root of evil, and all that.” Evelyn was surprised by how casual they had become, so quickly––as if she hadn’t tried to upend Helen’s whole world, and Helen hadn’t ejected her from the windshield of a plane. A bubble of bitterness welled up at that thought, and she pushed it back down, maintaining that neutral, playful face. “So what is this, then? Your visit, I mean. Hero work? Should I be calling you ‘Elastigirl’ right now? Is there a secret cameraman down the hall recording this for your next celebratory feast?”

Helen shook her head, her smile subsiding into thoughtfulness. “No costume––just Helen. I meant what I said before––after the police showed up. I’m glad you’re alive, and I want to make sure you’re glad of it, too.”

“How noble,” Evelyn deadpanned. She knew there was something more to Helen’s reasoning. She visited out of the blue, she brought a gift, and she’s acting like nothing happened at all. She has to _want_ something––she can’t do this for every supervillain she puts behind bars. She has to want information, or leverage of some kind, or a deal––something that nobody else can give her. “What else?”

Helen’s brow furrowed a little at that. “Company, I suppose. Do I need an ulterior motive?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said. “Yes, you do. I tried to kill you, Helen. I lied to you, I invaded the privacy of your mind, I made you hurt the people you love! I hurt you, Helen, and from the moment I met you I was planning how best to hurt you. You have no reason to look me in the eye, ever again––so what do you want from me?”

Helen sighed, then dusted off her jeans and stood up. “I don’t want anything from you. I know how suspect that must seem, but it’s the truth. Maybe I should go.”

Again, Evelyn said nothing. Every moment she spent in this cell made her feel sick––like an animal under examination, a specimen of a rare and near-extinct breed of thing that should not be. Everything was made to make her feel this way: the white walls, the foot-thick bulletproof glass, the paper utensils, the humiliating steel toilet in the corner of the room. She was sick in the mind––the same place that set her apart from everyone else, from birth to now. Sick. Sick. Sick.

And yet, for all the sickness that she felt about her own sadistic self, Helen’s hero complex was so much worse. What did Evelyn do to deserve bulletproof glass? She couldn’t stop a monorail with her bare hands, or shoot heat rays out of her eyes, or generate portals to other dimensions. Helen could be in and out of this cell in seconds, and they let her walk right through the guard station untouched, clueless about the extent of her abilities.

Evelyn knew she didn’t deserve to be in that cell, but she knew who did.

Helen’s second mistake was giving her another chance.

“Helen,” She called out. Helen paused, already halfway down the hall, and turned to look at her. Every gullible feature on her face screamed ‘hope’; Evelyn let a smile rise to her face, savouring the resentment behind it. “Bring wontons next time?”

#

Helen returned the next Tuesday, exactly a week after her first visit, brown paper bag in hand.

“My hero,” Evelyn called out from her mattress. She had thought a lot about Helen in the week interim––mostly about their time together before her arrest, and all the buttons she had pushed during. Manipulating Helen was much simpler back then, since she’d started with such an edge: she was fulfilling a lifelong dream of Helen’s, she had access to ridiculous resources, she was able to isolate Helen with relative impunity, and she hadn’t given Helen any reason to doubt her intentions. Things would be much more difficult this time around, as none of those factors were on her side.

Helen sat in front of the glass just where she had the week before, and Evelyn joined her. Her hand easily stretched to the hole in the glass, threading the gap and offering the bag to Evelyn. She took it, deliberately brushing her fingertips over Helen’s knuckles as she pulled the bag into her lap and rummaged through; she also pretended not to notice the way Helen tensed at her touch.

Helen had her own paper bag this time, and she laid out her meal in a similar fashion to Evelyn. “I thought I would eat with you this time, if that’s alright. I know how much I miss family dinners when I’m away working.”

Evelyn nodded and spoke through a mouthful of wonton. “Be my guest.”

The guidelines of her manipulation were very simple: when Helen broke the rules for her, she would reward the behaviour with openness and friendly body language. It was classical conditioning, the kind used to discipline dogs and cats––not that Helen was by any means as simple as a house pet. She wasn’t going to start robbing banks and stealing cars just because Evelyn snapped her fingers at the right moments. Moreover, she was smart enough to second-guess any sudden changes in behaviour; Evelyn would have to be careful to form any sort of positive associations without exposing her ulterior motives.

“How’s Bob?” Evelyn said, through a mouthful of rice.

“He’s good. Winston has him and Frozone working a dynamic-duo angle for the press, so they’ve spent the last few weeks in and out of town.”

“Does that bother you? Him dumping the kids on you to go fight crime with his pals?”

Helen chewed thoughtfully. “I dumped the kids on _him_ to fight Screenslaver, so I think it’s only fair I take a turn. Besides, I spent years on the home-front when Supers were illegal, so it’s not exactly new territory.”

“That’s a very rational and convincing line of thought.”

“What are you insinuating?”

Evelyn smirked. “Well, I asked if it _bothered_ you, not if it made sense.”

Helen smiled in return. Her smiles always came out more pleasant than Evelyn’s; Evelyn was always fighting a note of sarcasm. “I’m surprised an engineer like yourself doesn’t think feelings should be dictated by logic.”

“Sure,” Evelyn said, “they should, but they aren’t. Humans are broken that way.”

“Are you broken that way, Evelyn?” Helen challenged.

She considered how best to respond. She didn’t want to be giving out free treats, after all: that would undercut the effectiveness of her conditioning. “Don’t you think that’s a little personal, Helen?”

“Oh, play a little. It’s just us here.”

Evelyn leaned close, putting on a conspiratorial smile. “Is there more takeout in my future?”

Helen mirrored her expression. “Plenty.”

“Then yes, I would say I’m just as broken as anyone else. Perhaps a little more, if me being on this side of the glass is any testament to that.” She slid the Styrofoam and brown paper away from her, closing the gap and leaning her side against the glass; Helen shifted to sit more fully in her view. “If logic were the only thing dictating my emotions, I’d hate the idea of you visiting again––but here we are.”

“Sometimes we have to learn from emotion,” Helen said. “Sometimes emotions can identify patterns that leave logic stumped.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something someone with emotions would say.”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “You caught me. I do, in fact, have emotions.”

“Then tell me how you actually feel about Bob leaving town,” Evelyn pushed. Something complicated flit across Helen’s expression, and she knew she was pushing the right buttons.

“Well,” Helen began, “logically I agree with everything I said before, but I admit it’s a little hard not to feel like a kid whose turn on the television just ended. Hero work is hard, and dangerous, but it’s rewarding, too––there’s a reason I was attracted to it in the first place. And raising a family is also rewarding, but it’s a different kind of satisfaction.”

Evelyn drummed her fingers softly against the glass. “So you miss the adrenaline.”

“Could be,” Helen agreed. “But Bob deserves some time to enjoy that satisfaction too. That’s part of being married––compromise.” She ended her statement on a cheery note, but Evelyn could tell she was still dwelling on the question of adrenaline.

“Mm. That’s probably why I never got married––I was never any good at giving up the things I want,” Evelyn said.

“Never even thought about it?”

“And take all this off the market?” She tugged at the loose white jumpsuit, and Helen politely stifled a laugh. “I don’t think so. I’d break so many bachelorette’s hearts.” She watched Helen’s reaction as she dropped that very deliberate statement into the air. Her eyes widened a little, then flicked over Evelyn once, as if to look for signs that she was joking. Evelyn made sure there weren’t any.

After a quiet moment, Helen spoke. “I bet you would. I’m sorry for assuming you were interested in marrying a man. That was insensitive of me.”

Evelyn waved her away. “No need, ‘specially coming from you.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m no fool, Helen Parr––I saw photos of the mohawk in my insurance research. I bet that drove all the girls crazy.”

Helen collapsed dramatically against the glass. “First Bob grills me over the mohawk, now you’ve seen it too? It was a trend, you know––I wasn’t the only Super with a mohawk. I wasn’t even the only girl at my school with a mohawk.”

“Good thing––I bet that would’ve blown your cover like nothing else.”

“It almost did, once or twice. Luckily, my powers let me stretch in all sorts of ways, including compression; I squared myself up and pretended to be a little punk boy sometimes to get out of a close call.”

Evelyn laughed, trying to imagine Helen with a boy’s physique. “Tricky woman, you are. For what it’s worth, I thought the mohawk was cute––gave you a sort of intimidating look. Girls are into that, I hear.”

Incredibly, Helen winked. “Keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours?”

“The mohawk, or the dubious question of whether you’re attracted to women?”

“Yes.”

Evelyn stood and wandered over to her mattress, sensing that their visit was coming to a close. “Deal.” Helen gathered her paper trash as well as Evelyn’s own in a single stretching motion; that prompted a question. “Should you be stretching in here? What with the cameras and guards and all?”

“Well,” Helen said, “strictly speaking, no. But Winston is already curating the security footage of your cell––a fact that I disagree with on principle, but he refuses to hear me on––so there isn’t any real harm in it. The guards I do have to keep an eye on.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tattle,” Evelyn promised.

Helen gave her one last smile as she turned to head down the hall towards the guard station. “Same time next week?”

Evelyn nodded. “Same time next week.”

Then her footsteps were retreating, and Evelyn was alone again. The hall felt much emptier without Helen in it; she was a spot of colour against a grey backdrop. Even her smell, the faint lavender of laundry detergent, quickly found itself soaked up by the concrete floors. That feeling of being watched and dissected returned again; Evelyn put her head down into her stained white sheets and retreated into her head, where she could wait for it to pass.

Same time next week.


	2. hero complex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Helen accidentally reveals what she does with her free time.

Tuesdays quickly became the only notable landmark in Evelyn’s week. Each day leading up to Tuesday was spent in sober anticipation, planning exactly what questions to slip into conversation, and what rules she could push Helen to break. The days after were less pleasant, in the knowledge that she had just passed the sunset of her lonely week, and dusk was still a long way off.

 That said, even her lonely days had seen a mild improvement in quality since Helen started to visit. After she’d started to save the brown paper from her takeout bags, she was able to convince Helen to sneak her in a pen (a considerable faux-pas, as it allowed her to design doomsday devices built entirely of disposable spoons and Styrofoam). It was nice to be able to write and sketch again; ideas for inventions and improvements on some of her DevTech designs had started to fill up in the corners of her mind, and it was cathartic to let them out. Admittedly, some of her designs were garbage––for instance, she couldn’t imagine there were many applications for a folding chair that doubled as a telephone––but a few keepers found themselves stuffed under her mattress for memorization on those long days after Tuesday.

 One such square of brown paper was sitting in front of Evelyn as Helen crossed the hall towards her cell. She was bent over it at an uncomfortable angle, pen scratching gently as to prevent tearing in the weaker, grease-stained sections.

“Knock-knock,” Helen said, sitting in her normal spot across the glass. She had a white takeout bag this time, with a logo of a chicken wearing a top hat; Evelyn guessed it was fried chicken.

Evelyn leaned back from her drawing, spine popping in quiet protest. “I’d say ‘come in’, but that would imply I want you in here, and I don’t.”

“I’m _wounded._ ”

“Hm. I recall you being more durable than that.” She reached towards the hole in the glass, ready to receive her takeout. “No Chinese this week?”

Helen shook her head. “I was in a bit of a rush, so I stopped at a place across town instead. Hopefully that’s alright with you.” She made no effort to offer the takeout bag; Evelyn let her hand drop back down to her lap. Helen seemed tense; the smoothness of her motions had fallen away a little, and her arms were crossed in subconscious self-defence. “What are you drawing? Something for DevTech?”

Evelyn glanced down at the paper, then carefully turned it to face the glass. “No, actually––it’s a portrait of my dear baby brother.”

“Wearing a blindfold?”

“If you look closely, the blindfold says ‘Supers’ on it. Subtle, I know. Can I have my lunch, please, Miss Hero?” Helen obliged, walking over to the glass hole and poking the bag through––no stretching, Evelyn noted as she took the food and sat back down. The chicken, like the Chinese food, was cold, but leaps and bounds better than prison food; once she’d scarfed down a satisfactory portion, she risked a question. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Alright? Yes, perfectly fine.” Helen’s shoulders drew together, ever so slightly; Evelyn stored that information away under ‘Helen’s lying tells’.

“Are you sure? Because you look like you just jumped in a cold lake. By which I mean, tense––you look tense,” Evelyn said.

Helen shrugged, revealing the slimmest line of bright red material under the hem of her sweater. Things were beginning to fall together in Evelyn’s head: she was ‘in a rush’, she looked about as jumpy as a coiled spring––and she was wearing something red under her sweater, which probably also explained her reluctance to stretch. Evelyn decided to test her hypothesis.

She returned to her food complacently, letting a comfortable silence settle in the hall––then, without any warning, she reached out and slammed her palm into the glass with a resounding _thump._

Helen sprang to her feet, leaping back from the glass and dropping into an alert stance, her expression serious. After a few electric seconds of stillness, she seemed to clue in that Evelyn was messing with her, and relaxed again. “What on earth was that supposed to be?” She said, a little petulant.

Evelyn ignored her. “You’re wearing your supersuit under your clothes. Is that a pervy thing, or did you come straight here after a fight?”

Helen’s cheeks burned, though out of frustration or embarrassment Evelyn wasn’t sure. “I––well, I did, but––I’m not even going to touch that first statement.” The fire in her expression started to fade, and took some of that tension with it; Evelyn was glad, as it was making the whole room feel uncomfortably like a mouse trap waiting to snap shut. “But yes, I did make a little diversion on my way here. What’s it to you?”

She shrugged. “Did you win?”

“You make it sound like a game.”

“Oh, did you lose? That sounds like loser’s talk,” Evelyn teased. Now that she was finished her chicken, she could carefully flatten and fold up the white bag––it would be a nice change of pace from the brown paper, which made the black ink a little hard to see.

Helen sat back down in her normal spot. Now that the frustration had run out of her, she was left with a sort of glow; provided that her powers didn’t literally make her radioactive, Evelyn guessed this was the afterglow of a healthy rush of adrenaline spiking her blood flow. Her pupils were a little dilated, too.

“I ‘won’, if you have to call it that,” Helen said. “Bank robbery––three men in ski masks, nothing special.”

Evelyn realized that this was an opportunity to accelerate her manipulation a little. “Are you allowed to stop bank robberies and stuff? What with Bob being out of town, and all.”

“Of course I am. What are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing!” She held up her hands, feigning innocence. “Nothing at all. I just thought that was part of the deal. He fights crime with Frozone, you watch over the kids.”

Helen’s shoulders drew together again. “I don’t see why I can’t do both. I’m flexible,” She added, as if this ratified her point. Evelyn sensed she was right about their arrangement: Helen wasn’t, strictly speaking, supposed to be fighting crime while Bob was away. The line of thought was quite clear: if something took Helen off-guard, what would happen to the kids? But apparently, Helen couldn’t hold off her hero complex long enough to cover her husband’s absence. The thought made Evelyn nauseous. _Typical Supers._

Instead of drilling that point any further, Evelyn took a different angle. “You’re a bit of an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?”

Helen shrugged. “What gave it away?” She said, biting down on a particularly massive chicken wing. “The biking, the airplane piloting, the masked men with guns, the skydiving…”

Evelyn was forcibly reminded of her last moments of freedom––being yanked like a ragdoll through the windshield of a jet, and plummeting towards the restless surface of the New Urbem harbour. In those seconds of freefall, she found herself able to recall in perfect clarity everything she knew about the physics of falling––of terminal velocity, of wind resistance, of the relationship between surface area and impact. She could even recall a particularly horrid fact that suggested hitting water at a high speed was no better than hitting concrete. The yawning maw of certain death almost swallowed her then and there, until––

“Evelyn?”

She blinked. “Sorry––thinking about a design flaw. I think what tipped me off was the bike you destroyed like half a day after I made it for you.”

Helen didn’t seem convinced by that, but she accepted the topic change with grace. “Hey, you were the one who compiled a damage report on me. You know how many Elasticycles I went through back in the day.”

“Maybe I was hoping you’d gotten a little more careful with age,” Evelyn prodded.

“Ha––not likely.”

“Well,” She said, “I guess you’ll just have to owe me one.”

“After you tried to make Supers illegal forever? I feel like maybe we’re even on that one,” Helen said. There was no fight in her voice––apparently mass destruction was just table talk for costumed sociopaths.

“And Supers are more legal than they’ve ever been. That score is even; you still owe me one Elasticycle, or in-store credit. I’m not picky.”

“At this rate,” Helen began, holding up her takeout bag, “I’ll have that value paid off in about two thousand more takeout bags.” She hoisted herself to her feet––still careful not to stretch, Evelyn saw––and gathered her things as usual. Their visit was done.

“You could bust me out of here,” Evelyn joked. “That would be worth as much as the Elasticycle to me.”

“Mm. Let me think that one over.”

“Do.” That sufficed for goodbye; Helen didn’t linger much longer, and soon Evelyn was alone again. Silently, she picked up her new white paper and her drawing of Winston, slid them under her mattress, then resumed lazing atop it.

Helen, she had learned, was still fighting crime, even when she promised her husband not to; she was keeping a secret from him, one Evelyn, though accidentally, was in on. She needed to do what she felt was right, just like Mr. Incredible––and she craved the danger that came with it, just like Mr. Incredible. The only real difference between Helen and Bob (at least, as Supers) was that Helen didn’t seem to care much for the reputation that followed that danger. Inklings of a plan were starting to form in the darkest pit of Evelyn’s mind; if she was careful, she might be free of those white walls yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these early chapters are foundational (and im p sure the next one will be too) but the ship will sail soon enough. devil emoji


	3. lady luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn finds another piece in her daunting puzzle.

Evelyn woke to a sheen of sweat covering her body, her thin white blanket practically soaked through and her jumpsuit uncomfortably clingy. Her cell felt like an oven––like the furious sun was glaring down on her, not hidden away behind god-knows how many feet of concrete and dirt.

She pulled herself free of the blanket, throwing it into a heap in the corner, and rolled out of her bed. The floor was cooler, but only marginally. _This wouldn’t do._

It took only an hour of shouting and cursing until a guard opened the heavy metal door at the end of the hall and noticed her tantrum––a new record. He was a surly type, as bald as he was grumpy, but even he couldn’t ignore the sweltering heat in the hall: he mumbled something quietly into the radio on his lapel, then returned to the coolness of the guard station, giving her the barest assurance that someone would come down to check it out.

 _Maybe this was their long-term plan,_ she fumed, pulling her jumpsuit off and lying flat on the ground. _If they stuck her in a big tin-foil room, then cranked the heat up, they didn’t have to worry about rehabilitating her––just figure out how best to serve her over chopped vegetables and rice._

“I’m telling Elastigirl,” She muttered, to nobody in particular, “and she’s gonna get you guys in _trouble._ ”

Eventually they did send someone down to investigate the heat: a wiry-looking mechanic with a garish orange jacket and a box of neon orange tools. They looked like some kind of hard plastic material; she guessed it was to prevent inmates from stealing hard-to-see metal tools. It worked: she would never be caught dead using those Baby’s First Toolbox nightmares.

The mechanic set up a ladder, pushed one of the ceiling tiles up and out of the way, then pulled a flashlight from her front pocket and clicked it from out of sight. Evelyn was lying on her stomach now, interested in the mechanic’s work, if only by virtue of having literally no other distractions. She made quick work of her inspection; barely a minute after poking into the ceiling space, she returned, and spoke into the radio on her jacket:

“Air conditioner’s busted. Send a greenie down with a replacement kit?”

Now that the mechanic mentioned it, Evelyn realized she was right: the ever-present hum of the air conditioning unit was missing from the ambience of the hall. It was funny how something so constant could go missing and it’d never cross your mind––at least, until you were pinned to the floor by a miasma of humidity, sweating through your awful state-provided sports bra and dreaming about open windows.

With surprising promptness, another worker in orange entered the hall with a rolling cart, on which a pristine array of metal pieces sat. Evelyn recognized them as replacement parts for the air conditioner––most notably a new motor and its assorted fittings and pieces of chassis. The second worker nodded to the first, then, obviously swamped by the humidity, ducked out of the hall again.

“Thanks,” The mechanic called after him. “Not like I could use a hand, or nothin’.” She took the motor into one hand, turning it over and considering its heft. It was a pretty heavy-duty piece of equipment, Evelyn noted––must be attached to a pretty big fan to need that much torque. “Sometimes I swear I’m the only person workin’ here that actually _likes_ her job.”

It took Evelyn a moment to realize that statement was addressed to her; the guards and other workers had taken to acting like she didn’t exist, and she provided them the same courtesy. Evidently, mechanics didn’t get the memo.

“Y’know, I’m pretty handy with a wrench,” Evelyn said, smile heavy with sarcasm. “Bust me out of here and I’ll help you fit that sucker in.”

The mechanic laughed. “Couldn’t if I wanted to, Miss––no keys.” She considered the motor one last time, then dragged the cart to her tile and set about climbing the ladder one-handed. Evelyn heard her go to work, even when she couldn’t see it; she could practically imagine each step it’d take to replace. First the screws, then removing the chassis, then the fittings, the motor…

Right on cue, the mechanic returned to the floor with the broken motor in hand. She placed it on the cart, retrieved a different size of wrench, and went right back to work. By then, she was apt to be putting the new unit into place: reconnecting the shaft to the fan, then reassembling the chassis, and so on, and so on, and so the torture continued on. Evelyn wished more than anything she could be out there instead of in here––her hands ached to build something, or fix something, to do something _productive_ instead of designing better television antennae and drawing pictures of Elastigirl tied in a knot.

There was a bang from overhead, and the ladder shuffled uncertainly; for a moment, it looked like the mechanic was going for a nasty spill. But two miraculous things happened: first, the ladder found a better footing, a couple inches to the left; and second, the leg of that ladder bumped into the side of the rolling cart, which casually rolled across the hall and into the glass wall of Evelyn’s cell.

_Did that really just happen?_

Evelyn, as quietly as possible, leapt to her feet and crossed her cell to the hole in the glass. She knew approximately how much time she had to work: she had replaced her fair share of motors, and this one didn’t look particularly complex. She had to move fast.

She thrust her arm through the hole and reached for the cart as far as her lazy muscles would allow; she was only millimeters short of reaching the broken motor. _If only I still had a hypnotized Elastigirl,_ she bemoaned internally. _Or at least her arms._

She realized she was going about this wrong. Instead of reaching for the motor, she angled a little lower and grasped at the edge of the metal cart. It was just in the reach of her fingertips; the metal was blissfully cold against her sweating skin. She pushed harder, so hard that she could feel a red circle cutting itself into the radius of her shoulder––but it was worth it, as her fingers fit under the cart’s metal rim.

She pulled the cart closer, cringing as the wheels squeaked in protest. Her mind was flying with ideas and thoughts and fears––mostly fears, if she was being honest––but there were a few things she knew. The mechanic would notice that the broken motor was missing, so she couldn’t take the whole thing; that was okay, because all she needed was the guts. She pulled the motor through the hole, then reached back through and fished out a piece of chassis to use as a screwdriver. Then she unscrewed the metal body of the motor, unfastened the actual moving parts from the inside, and started to close it––but that wouldn’t fly, either. The broken motor would be much too light––that’d also arouse suspicion.

A few more trips to the cart and Evelyn amassed a handful of spare chassis parts––nothing big or important, but heavy enough to hopefully mitigate the weight of the motor innards. She quietly placed them inside, screwed the body shut, and placed it as gently as she was able back onto the cart.

Finally, she gave the cart a deliberate shove––not strong enough to cross the hall and knock down the ladder (though the thought occurred to her), but strong enough to get it away from her glass cell. In her eagerness, she might’ve pushed a bit hard––for a scary moment, it looked as if it might slam into the other side of the hallway––but it ended up somewhere near the ladder, and Evelyn let out a hearty breath. She stuffed the motor innards into the pile of damp blanket in the corner.

Not a second too soon, the mechanic descended the ladder. To her credit, she immediately noticed that the cart wasn’t where she left it; she spun all about trying to place it, then, when she spotted it, gave it a firm reprimand.

“Don’t be running away on me,” She scolded. Then she turned to Evelyn. “The audacity of these things.”

Evelyn nodded. “You’re lucky––it almost took the ladder out from under you.”

“Wish it had,” She said, deadpan. “My insurance is great.”

“We can re-enact it if you like?” Evelyn offered.

“Hm… best not. There are cameras, after all,” She chuckled. Evelyn felt a rush of blood move to her head; she’d completely forgotten that she was under surveillance. She found the corner of the room where the camera was mounted. _Winston,_ she thought, willing her words to reach him somehow, _cover me on this or I’ll tell Helen about your Super Shrine._

“Best not,” Evelyn parroted back. The mechanic picked up her bag of tools, placed it on the cart, and was on her way. Then, distantly, she heard the click of a switch, and that delicious hum Evelyn had missed so much was filling the room again.

For all sorts of reasons, Evelyn felt like laughing, and singing, and oddly, like crying too. Part of it was hysteria, she was sure, from being cooped up in here for so long––but she was also thinking about the things a working motor would enable her to do, as soon as she found out what was wrong with it. Maybe she wouldn’t have to rely on Helen after all.

All the same, she was looking forward to Tuesday. Who knew what she could have done by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no helen in this chapter, I know––but the next one will be extra emotional to make up for it.


	4. where were you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn's perfectly paced routine goes out the window, and that's not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle in, y'all. this one gets a little angsty.

She would have to be very careful around Helen this week.

The motor, as she suspected, was not damaged beyond repair. Most of the problems were jam-ups in important parts; there was a lot of dust in an underground facility like this, and the cleaning crew, though dedicated, rarely made the journey into the ceiling space to clear out the machinery. Using the piece of chassis she palmed as a makeshift screwdriver, Evelyn was able to open up and clear out most of these parts with relative ease. The only part of the motor that was truly damaged was the rotating shaft, which was slightly bent near the middle––on a constantly rotating fan, that meant the weight of the blades was being thrown around willy-nilly, and that was bound to lead to disaster. However, this didn’t matter much for what she had planned.

There was a flaw in her cell design, and she had every intent to exploit it. In the weeks of lying on her bed and staring at the walls, Evelyn found herself drawn to the outline of the access door––a panel painted to blend into the wall, sans doorknob on her side. The door opened outward, and the hinges were on the guard’s side; for all intents and purposes, it was just another panel from the inside. Point one for prison.

Except, of course, that the panel couldn’t be _perfectly_ flush with the wall since there needed to be enough space for the door to swing. There was an outline, perhaps a centimetre wide, of empty space running around the door––and based on the way the door swung, Evelyn knew which side the hinges were on. All Evelyn needed to do was design a device that could unseat the shaft of the hinge, and the door would simply fall off its frame. Point one for Evelyn.

It wasn’t an escape plan, exactly––she still needed to figure out what to do once she _left_ the cell––but it was a confident start, and she had nothing but time.

Which brought her back to her first thought, as she sat in her usual spot against the glass wall: she couldn’t let on to Helen that anything had changed––not in her words, not in her demeanour, not even in the way she looked at the walls around her. No hope; only disgust. That was the way to freedom.

Further down the hall, Evelyn heard movement in the guard station. Her heart started to pound more rapidly––this was it. When Helen walked through that door, the game was on.

When the door opened, she’d walk on in.

Just as soon as the door opened.

_Ahem._

_Door, open. Helen, enter._

_…Helen?_

 Evelyn drummed her fingers on her thigh, getting as good a view as she could of the end of the hallway. What felt like hours passed: no Helen. Not much of anything, in fact. The low chatter of the guards kept its normal pace; the radio buzzed angrily, as it always did; even the hum of the air conditioner had sunk back into normalcy after its uncomfortable absence in the days before.

It was starting to feel like a bad joke to Evelyn––like Helen was waiting at the guard station, making an unusually spirited effort at small talk, knowing perfectly well that Evelyn could hear her––

_No, that’s stupid. I can’t hear her; therefore, she isn’t at the guard station._

Maybe she was just late? New Urbem was notorious for its bad traffic, even on the best of days––if Helen had taken the freeway across town, she could be stuck there for any length of time, even if rush hour wasn’t for another few hours. Or she could have stopped on one of her heroic errands: interrupting a bank robbery, or punching in the windshield of a UFO, or saving a kitten from a tree––

_She stopped a bank robbery before her last visit, and she was barely ten minutes late––unless, of course, she’s bleeding in an alleyway somewhere._

Then maybe she just didn’t feel like coming today. Nobody can feel like being a hero every day of every week without suffering from a little social fatigue. She probably just needed to take it easy for a few days, and drop the double-identity act: play a little Full-Time Mom, the hero of modern America. Vacuum the house, pre-cook a week of Tupperware meals, balance the old chequebook––

 _That’s even dumber than the first one. She practically gets off on throwing herself off buildings––hero-work is_ already _her escape from social fatigue._

Evelyn let her head drop against the glass; then, because she liked the sound it made, she picked it up again, only to let it drop.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Why did it matter so much anyway? Helen was just a means to an end––a button for Evelyn to push. She couldn’t exactly be mad about punctuality on principle: Evelyn was chronically late. So what was it, then? Was she addicted to the chemicals they injected into takeout food? Why did it make her so frustrated that Helen wasn’t here? Why did it feel so hot and achy in her chest, like her lungs were full of smoke?

Why did she feel so alone?

Maybe she didn’t make the list this week. Maybe she wasn’t important enough to warrant a visit. Evelyn still didn’t understand why she was worth visiting in the first place––she had done nothing but make Helen’s life miserable, even when she was actively making it better. Any sane person would look at her, what she had done, and look the other way.

She’d done the cost analysis for each Super––for Elastigirl, Mr. Incredible, Frozone, even a few other Supers who were still underground but fit the profile for the kind of icon they needed. The reports were made complicated by all sorts of little factors, but the premise was extremely simple: how much good did they do, and how much damage did they cause in the process? If the second outweighed the first, like Mr. Incredible, you were more of a nuisance than a hero; if they were equal––and, to the intense satisfaction of the pessimist in Evelyn, most of the Supers came out about equal in the end––you were worth keeping an eye on. But if the first outweighed the second––if you did more good than bad, fixed more than you broke, helped more than you hurt, like Helen, then you were making a difference in the world.

Evelyn ran a cost analysis on herself.

How much damage did she cause?

She landed herself in prison; she hurt her brother, broke his trust in a way she might never truly heal over; she opened the jar on a technology so dangerous it could topple society as she knew it, and there was no closing it; she, indirectly, led to the legalization of an entire class of rogue citizens with powers above the law, who could take the lives of everyday people into their own hands at a righteous whim––no permission required, no consent given, no regulation possible.

How much good?

She landed herself in prison, where she couldn’t hurt anyone but herself. She supposed, in the eyes of the world, that could be considered good.

That wasn’t a great ratio of help-to-harm––even Mr. Incredible put her to shame.

Evelyn let her head fall against the glass, and this time, she didn’t pick it back up.

 

#

 

Because of the positioning of the hallway camera, there was a tiny, barely-person-sized blind spot in the back corner of Evelyn’s cell; she was sitting there, fiddling with the motor, when the door at the end of the hall creaked open.

Instinctively, Evelyn shoved the motor under the corner of her mattress and leaned against the wall, preparing to stare off into space when the guard came into view.

“Hi.”

Before she could stop it, Evelyn’s face shot up to meet her visitor; even before she saw the reddish-brown curls and the apologetic smile, she recognized Helen’s voice––warm, with a rasp, and the softest hint of a drawl.

“Where were you yesterday?” Evelyn croaked. That ball of smoky heat in her chest had returned, much to her chagrin. “I waited for you. Not that I had much of a choice.”

Helen sighed, letting her purse fall from her shoulder to her hand, then onto the ground. “I didn’t mean to miss lunch,” She said, crossing her arms, “but I didn’t have much of a choice. Bob came home from his trip yesterday morning.”

“Oh,” Evelyn said. That made sense––perfect sense, even. Of course her husband would outrank her pet rehabilitation project. So why didn’t she feel any better?

“Yeah.” Helen sat in her normal spot, inviting Evelyn closer. Absurdly, she felt a little like a house cat, lurking at a safe distance in case Helen tried anything funny. After a moment of silent consideration, she caved, sitting in a messy heap near the glass.

“How is he?” Evelyn said, even though no force on earth could make her care about Bob’s wellbeing.

“He’s fine––already misses the work, I think, but he’s happy to be home.” Helen gave a soft smile, and Evelyn could tell much of that sentiment was mirrored––her relief to have her husband home was palpable. There was something else buried in her expression, too––something more conflicted. Evelyn wondered exactly how to excavate that part of her thoughts; if Helen was anything like Winston, she wouldn’t volunteer the information.

“Did they fight any big supervillains? I don’t get magazines down here.”

“Nothing so big,” Helen replied, “but they got a good statement from the Chief of Police about how big of a help they were. Lots of cops got to go home to their families this month, none of them in a casket––that’s a good day’s work, so far as we’re concerned.”

Evelyn ignored the gooey happy stuff and focused on the reality. “Good for PR.”

“That too,” Helen said, her smile returning.

“You should bring Bob for a visit sometime,” Evelyn joked. “I could give him a tour. He probably knows some of the guys in here.” Helen chuckled, but her smile grew a little forced; Bob _was_ the heart of the issue, then.

“Helen,” She said.

“Evelyn,” Helen replied, mimicking her deadpan tone.

“Does Bob know you’re here?”

“Yes.” A long pause. Then: “He doesn’t like it, but he knows.”

“He doesn’t like it,” Evelyn prodded.

Helen continued. “He doesn’t understand. One visit, he got––curiosity, closure, whatever. But he doesn’t get why I haven’t stopped.” She paused. “He said that I’ve never put this much work into connecting with a villain before, and he doesn’t understand why I’m so fixated on you.” Evelyn understood what she meant, but it didn’t stop Helen’s wording from exciting her pulse a little. She told herself it was because her conditioning was working––if Helen was fixated, she was vulnerable. But, deep under the rest, maybe in the same place that the ball of heat in her chest came from, there was a much quieter, much more selfish voice screaming for recognition.

“He’s never met my charming side,” Evelyn reasoned. Helen said nothing; Evelyn thought that would’ve made her smile a little, but she only grew more flushed and upset.

“He told me to stop visiting you,” She said, with painful ease.

Evelyn’s heart stalled; distantly, she realized that this was a tipping point in her future, and they were ever-so-barely balanced. She spoke, even though she felt breathless. “Are you going to?”

Helen avoided her eyes. “He has a point.”

“I don’t care if he has a point,” Evelyn said. The heat in her chest was starting to feel sharp, like a gauge in her deflating lungs. “I want to know what _you_ think––unless you just do whatever Bob tells you to do.”

“I don’t like your tone,” Helen snapped. “He’s my husband, his opinion is important to me. My actions have consequences, you know––I can’t just ignore the people around me and do whatever I want.”

“So I was important when Bob was away, but now that he’s back, I’m just a ‘want’? I’m optional?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But Bob did.”

Helen crossed her arms again. “Bob _reminded_ me that it isn’t my responsibility to undo the things you’ve done. He reminded me how easily you manipulated me, and used me, and how close you came to very seriously hurting my family––and how likely it is that you’re _still_ trying to use me, even now.”

Evelyn tried to speak, but nothing came out. She had no defense from that; she couldn’t even conjure a shame-faced lie.

She surrendered.

“You know what, whatever.” Evelyn turned around, facing away from the glass. Her teeth ground together viciously as she worked to keep composure; tiny bead-like tears were forming in the corner of her eyes. She couldn’t tell if she was angry or miserable anymore––the feelings just ran together, like the other six days of the week––though she’d have to update that figure soon. “He’s right. I’m not worth your time.” The words felt like acid leaving her throat; that was how she knew they were right.

The hall was quiet, save for Evelyn’s uneven breaths. She wasn’t sure if Helen was sitting there anymore; she could’ve gotten up and walked away, for all Evelyn knew. She was turned too far inwards––too far, even, to care about the furious streaks of tears cutting wet paths in her cheeks, pooling on the cold floor.

 Gently, like a butterfly landing on a flower petal, Evelyn felt a hand come to rest on her back. Slowly, it rubbed a soothing path along her spine. She was shocked by how much warmth radiated from that touch, both figurative and literal, seeping through her jumpsuit and sending waves of relaxation through her aching back. Evelyn realized that she hadn’t had any sort of human touch since she brushed Helen’s knuckles weeks before; she was probably a little deprived of it by this point.

“I told him no,” Helen said, her voice soft. “Maybe he was right about those things, but I still think there’s good in you––under all the bitterness, and grief.”

Evelyn laughed, even though she didn’t want to. “I appreciate your gullibility.”

Helen’s hand rapped against her back lightly, as if protesting that statement. Then it retracted; Evelyn wiped her face with her sleeve, then turned to face Helen again. She was still smiling that gentle smile somehow; her essential _goodness_ was relentless. _No wonder she’s a Super,_ Evelyn thought. _If she wasn’t wearing a costume, she’d be volunteering at soup kitchens and knitting sweaters for orphans._

Evelyn felt an impulsive thought bubble to the surface of her mind, and for once, she was in no place to deny it.

“Helen?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m getting touch-starved in here,” The words spilled out before she could overthink them. “I––uh––well, is there any way you could––”

Helen held up a finger, silencing her rambling. She looked to the end of the hall, an air of secrecy colouring her smile. Then she looked at the camera in the corner, waved knowingly, and stretched like a ribbon through the hand-sized hole in the plexiglass, landing in a graceful somersault. Evelyn was a little taken aback by that; she expected maybe a hand on her shoulder, not an entire visitor in her cell.

She straightened back up in her proper proportions, then came and sat next to Evelyn. “Winston bought out the cameraman,” She explained. “Your footage isn’t even being recorded. Again, I don’t agree, but it is convenient for moments like these.” That was convenient knowledge––particularly as it pertained to the motor stuffed under her pillow. Distantly, she felt a note of amusement; she thought hiding that from Helen was going to take up all her concentration, but there it lied––almost forgotten.

“What about the guards?” Evelyn asked.

“Just went on break,” Helen said. Her eyes gleamed with mischief; Evelyn realized she was getting a little thrill out of this. Helen reached for Evelyn’s hand, and she offered it without hesitation. Her thumb grazed Evelyn’s palm, sending shivers up her arm; for the second time that day, a quiet voice shouted things she found difficult to quantify. Something about warmth, and touch, and how she suddenly felt more content than she had since her incarceration began.

There was a certain difficulty in predicting how conditioning would work. In conditioning a dog, you might clap your hands to convey that you wanted them to sit, and you might reward them with a treat. However, you have to be careful: every time you clap, your dog might feel entitled to a treat. It was this line of thought that made Evelyn wonder––was she using her openness to make Helen break the rules? Or was Helen breaking the rules to open Evelyn up? Who was really in control here?

Evelyn was starting to think it wasn’t her.


End file.
